


SWAT Girl

by winchestersinthedrift



Series: Het SPN Oneshots [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kinda, Oral Sex, Smut, Some Humor, Uniform Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift





	SWAT Girl

The voice on the other end of the line was a little hesitant.

‘Hey, I got this number from Bobby? He says to tell you the bacon’s too crisp.’

Liz rolled her eyes and laughed. Bobby and his paranoid codewords.

‘Yeah, OK. And the eggs were supposed to be scrambled. Oh Bobby. Who’s this?’

The voice relaxed. ‘Hey, it’s Dean Winchester. I think we met years ago? We’re looking for some SWAT gear and Bobby said you might have something.’

Her eyebrows raised.

‘Hostage thing over on 2nd?’

‘Yeah, tapped the camera feed and at least two of ‘em are demons. We can take ‘em but we need to get in there–’

‘Right, right, gotcha!’ Liz had flicked on the light inside the basement stairwell and was already halfway down the stairs. ‘Got a few I picked up when a precinct closed out last year. Knew the inventory guy.’ She tried to picture the Winchester boys as they’d been when she last saw them. They’d been running a job with their dad – oh gosh – 8 years ago? That wasn’t going to help a whole lot. ‘What size are you guys?’

‘Uh, how’s the sizing on SWAT gear w- oh ok,’ she could hear Sam talking in the background. ‘L and a - shit - XXL? what’ve you got? We can squeeze if we gotta.’

She was in the back corner of your basement now, flipping through hangers.

‘Yeah, I think we’re ok. You coming by now?’

‘Yeah, give us ten.’

—–

When the black Impala pulled up in front of the house Liz had the SWAT gear in a pile in front of the battered coffee table in her tiny living room. Last time she’d seen the Winchester boys she’d still been a kid herself and her dad had been the one hoarding piles and shelves of stuff in the basement that hunters might occasionally need – not the stuff they carried with them, guns and knives and holy water, but the kind of gear they’d only ever need once in awhile, not enough to warrant packing it around the country in the trunk of a car: obscure makes of swords and guns, a shelf of the rarer herbs and powders sometimes needed for spells; and most of all, costumes. The dress-up room, Liz had called it when she was very small; uniforms (nurses, EMTs, firemen, cops, special forces), suits for getting into banks and coveralls for passing as a handyman or plumber. Her parents had been rescued from a wraith by a hunter back in the 70s, as newlyweds; they’d spent the next thirty years as a kind of civilian wing of the hunting community. At least that’s the way her dad had liked to think of himself. For herself – well she wasn’t quite sure yet.

She could see the boys out the front window as they walked around to the side door in what looked like blue collar work clothes, the kind that blended in at bars and malls and coffee shops all across rural America: worn jeans, short workboots fitted around the ankles, thick button-up shirts rolled up to the elbow and open at the throat.

She would have recognised Dean, though he looked hella different. Last time she’d seen him he’d been maybe 19 or 20, hair long enough to curl up a little around his face, shoulders like a god even then but slim and lithe and softer in expression, cocky in the way that only really young men are. Now he stood in her doorway tough and brawny, hair cut short and mouth set firmer than she remembered it. He was all focus, scanning the room, lips twisting a little.

‘You got ‘em? Great, let’s do this.’ He unholstered his gun and set it on the coffee table, shuffled off his jacket. ‘Let’s go, Sammy.’

Sam came in behind him, pulling a little apologetic smile. At least, it must be Sam, and Liz could see it in his face if she looked, but _jesus_. Last time she’d seen him he’d been maybe 16, lanky and big boned but quiet, watching his dad and brother with sharp attention. She remembered he’d taken a couple of oreos when she’d offered a bag, but other than that he hadn’t made an impression; and she only remembered that because he’d had the longest fingers she’d ever seen, strong and big-knuckled but graceful for all that. He was easily twice the size he’d been then, a few inches taller and thick through the shoulders and chest, and unlike his brother his hair was cut long enough to fall forward into his face when he bent over the gear.

They were quick and short on words, anxious to get back to the scene, packing the gear into duffle bags and leaving almost at once. ‘Call you after,’ Dean said from the door, and Liz nodded stood looking after Sam’s back till they disappeared round the house.

—–

There was no way of knowing when they’d be back; she knew that as well as they did. She kept the radio tuned to the news and found herself a mindless job: going through inventory lists from upcoming estate sales. That she could focus on, at least enough to circle any items of possible interest. She was on the floor with her back against the couch and laptop on her knees when the 8pm news came on: the stand-off had ended, finally, when two tactical officers had stormed the place and taken out both of the hostage-takers; interviews were being sought, were promised for the 10pm slot. Liz grinned to herself. _Good luck with that, fuckers._

It was about half an hour after dark when they returned, this time coming around the back, so silently she wouldn’t have heard them if she hadn’t been watching. She was used to hunters coming and going with unnerving stealth; what she wasn’t used to was two giant demi-gods standing on her kitchen linoleum, dressed in full SWAT gear, black toques pulled up over their foreheads and exhausted, dopey grins on their faces. There was blood across the backs of their hands and streaked on one of Sam’s cheeks.

‘Hey,’ Liz said, taking a weapons belt from Dean, who had already started to strip, ‘you guys ok?’

Sam nodded and Dean glanced up at her with raised eyebrows, his hands busy at the back of his vest.

‘We’re good,’ he said, briefly but not curtly. ‘We got ‘em. The hostages’ll have a story but no one’ll believe it anyway.’ He tugged the vest off and started undoing his kneeguards. Gotta go see about those bullets, Sam. Have a look for the other stuff?’

‘Yeah.’ Sam turned to Liz. ‘OK if I take a quick look? We’ve been trying to find a couple of powders and Bobby’s pulling a blank. I can walk to the hotel after, it’s close.’

‘Yeah, yeah! No rush. I’ll be up for awhile.’ She gave Dean a dramatic little hand-wave across the room and he winked back and went out, saying over his shoulder at Sam, ‘Gonna stop for food too, whattaya want?.’

‘Vermicelli,’ said Sam, and Liz thought she heard Dean make a strange muffled sound. Then she and Sam were left in the kitchen, Sam still holding most of Dean’s SWAT kit hanging from his arms. He watched after Dean for a second with a funny little narrowing of his eyes and then he refocused and shrugged at her, smiling and rolling his shoulders to stretch them.

‘Wanna coffee?’ she said, automatically, moving towards the kettle. ‘It’s just instant, but you must be tired.’

‘Yeah.’ He raised his eyebrows in the universal trying-to-keep-my-eyes-open gesture and shook his head a little. ‘It’s been a long day.’ He sat down at her tiny formica table, still in his gear, and Liz leaned against the counter beside the kettle. Mostly she was trying not to stare at him, at the lines of muscle down his forearms and the way the tendons in his neck flexed and stood out when he tipped his head back to the ceiling for a moment and closed his eyes.

When she brought the coffee over he coaxed two big fingers through the mug’s handle and smiled again, but the smile this time didn’t quite reach his eyes. Liz sat down and glanced over at him, tapping the tip of her finger against the dots in the formica tabletop.

‘Heard on the radio you guys had to take ‘em down?’

‘Yeah.’ He was unsnapping the outer pocketed vest, chin tipped up a little to get at the buckles around his neck, and when it was off and on the floor beside him he started in on the elbow guards and holsters strapped to his side. She thought he might be done talking, but just as she was about to speak he said, almost to himself, ‘haven’t been able to save any hosts for awhile now.’

Liz didn’t say anything to this, just drank her coffee and tried not to stare at the way Sam’s tshirt was sticking damp and clinging to his upper arms. After a minute she got up and opened the cabinet above the mustard-yellow stove and took down a bottle of whiskey.

‘Drink?’ she said, and filled up his mug with the stuff before he answered. He looked at her and laughed, a real smile this time, dumbfounded but real.

‘I- OK but - there wasn’t much coffee left in there y’know. That’s … a lot of booze.’

‘You’re a lot of boy.’ She said it without really thinking, almost clapped her hand over her mouth but managed to stop, just blushed bright pink and felt her pulse start galloping. UGH. ‘I mean - uh - cheers to a job over.’

He clinked mugs and sat for a moment looking at her. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how pink she must look.

‘So,’ she said, flustered, ‘you guys had to run a job as SWAT before?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘coupla times, not for a year or so though.’ He paused and picked up the baton from where he’d put it on the table, flipped it easily in one hand. ‘The toys are kind of fun to play with.’

She could tell he was making an effort to be personable, to not just lose himself in reliving the day, and her heart warmed underneath her blush.

‘Yeah? Like…the baton?’

He nodded and hefted it in his hand.

‘Yeah, this is alright. Never got close enough to use it.’ He paused. ‘Not that different from - well - just hitting things with whatever you’ve got.’ His mouth twitched and then he gave her a grin so wide she felt it in the soles of her feet.

‘Yeah?’ She was feeling the whiskey a bit. ‘You’ve done a lot of that, I guess? Just hitting things with whatever y’got?’

Sam smirked a bit and stood up, moved towards the door to the hall. He tipped his chin up a little at her to beckon her closer – it was cocky and flippant and physical, and the steady humming between her legs kicked up a notch.

‘Basement?’ he said, and she held his gaze a second before she got up too, empty mug left beside his on the table. ‘Second door,’ she said, ‘light switch is on the right.’

—–

’Dammit,’ Liz said a few minutes later, standing up from checking the lower shelves of a closet, ‘I don’t think it’s down here. I keep a couple boxes under the bed upstairs – might be in there. Worth looking at least.’ She ran lightly up the basement steps and then the ones leading upstairs, vaguely aware of the sound of Sam following behind her. She was two steps ahead of him when she caught a toe on the edge of a step, whiskey-clumsy, over-corrected backwards and would have fallen but his hand caught her on the small of her back. She turned instinctively towards him and for a split second they stood like that, the two steps between them bringing her up to his height. He tipped his head back a little, one corner of his mouth curled lazily upwards; she felt his fingers press against her back and he said, ‘Wanna make out?’

She laughed and said ‘what are you, fourteen?’ but her hips leaned forward and found him.

‘Nah,’ leaning closer, so that his lips just brushed hers. ‘I just like you.’

When she kissed back he nuzzled into her, once, twice, and then the full weight of his lips pressed against hers, open-mouthed and with the force of his neck and back and shoulders, and she made a noise of choked surprise and pushed herself against him. He put a foot up on the stair between them and bent his knee and pulled her down on his thigh, and she gripped both her hands round the back of his neck and found his mouth again. She was so aroused that the feel of his leg against her cunt made her give a little cry, and he growled a little in his throat and shifted harder against her, one big hand tight under her ass and his fingers pressed against the seam of her jeans.

Then he paused and said _do you want this_?, soft and husky against her forehead, and she slid her hands forward to grip his jaw and said _yes yes YES_ , and he picked her up and ran up the rest of the stairs, barged first into the bathroom because he didn’t know where he was going, and by the time she hit the bed she was giggling uncontrollably, partly with nerves, because he was the prettiest thing she’d ever touched but he was hot and cold all at once, the cold menace of his earlier focus, the ruthlessness of the blood on his hands and the clench of his jaw, but also the fleshy throbbing heat of his body and the way his skin made hers tingle when he touched her and jesus she wanted him.

He undressed her, first, which turned out, with Sam, to be the hottest thing ever, not because he took his time but because he didn’t, and all the time he was peeling her clothes off he just kept looking at her face, little glances down but mostly looking at her mouth and eyes and _fuck_ licking his lips. Then he started to undo the buckles of his fitted-plate underarmour but she made a little noise and he stopped, looked at her questioningly.

‘Can you- uh, leave it on for a little?’ she said, embarrassed, but a sort of dark glow flickered across his face. Instead of answering he bent and kissed her again, ran his hands down from her waist over her belly and pushed her legs apart and tasted her, biceps pressed up against the insides of her thighs. She drew in a shuddering breath and then almost stopped breathing altogether, because she could feel his tongue in her spine and her shoulders and the deepest pit of her belly.

When he finally pulled off the vest and tugged off his t-shirt she swallowed and shivered, and he grinned at her and bit his lip and crawled up over the bed towards her. She sat up and fumbled at the button of his jeans, ran the palm of her hand up over his dick where it strained against the denim. He hooked one of his thumbs into his back pocket and pushed them down himself, grabbing a foil packet and tearing it open with his teeth. It was purple and flavoured and she laughed, giddy and hollow-chested and staring at his cock, and he pulled a face at her, dimpled and self-deprecating.

‘I swear, listen, _fuck_ , this was all they had left in the drugstore. I think, mm, there’s a citrus one if you want that instead.’

She didn’t quite have control of her voice but she dimpled back at him, flushed and pink and blushing, rolled it down over his cock (slick and twitching under her fingers) and then she stretched up on her knees to kiss him on the mouth and his face contorted with want, long fingers taking her face and shoulders hunched forward to reach her. She ran a hand round to his ass and pulled him towards her and he followed her down and took her in a quick gasping fumble, catching his lip between his teeth at the effort of going slowly, and she stopped breathing for a couple of seconds, head thrown to the side against the sheets, stomach muscles jumping a little just at the feel of him hard and big inside her and the weight of him pressing her thighs open against the sheets. Then he thrust, moved a little, and she made the strangest noise she’d ever heard herself make, something low and wailing and animalistic.

‘OK?’ said Sam, between his teeth but serious. When she dug her fingers into his biceps and nodded he took her under her knees, pushed them up so they slipped over his shoulders and rocked his hips into her, not even thrusting forwards really, just rolling his ass quick and punchy so that the force of it moved up between her legs and made the rest of her body tighten feverish around her core.

She came twice, first with her thighs still pressed hard against her chest. It felt like he was pushing her roughly apart, inside and out, his arms curled up under her shoulders and his hips swivelling forcefully into her. By the time she came she was a babbling mess, little anguished cries of pleasure-pain at every rock of his hips, and a part of her might have been self-conscious except that her noises seemed to provoke him: he savaged her like an animal, kissed and bit along the underside of her jaw and her mouth, tasting her cries; and when she felt herself on the edge she strained and arched against the weight of him, wrapped her elbows around the back of his head and pushed her hips up against his.

As she was coming down he pulled her legs back down so she was splayed open under him and he ran his hands firm and soothing over her limbs and shoulders, brushed his palm back from her forehead, fingers tangling in her hair and one hand cupping the back of her head. His rocking turned to steady thrusts, from his knees now more than from his hips, and when he put his head down his hair fell forward over his face and he set his jaw, torso curling in over her and forearms braced against the bed.

‘Sam,’ she said, through her teeth, tense and fluttering against him, because the root of his dick was pressing up on her clit with every stroke and she could feel herself already tight and quivering around him again. When she came the second time it was nearly with him, just a couple of seconds after, because the noise he made and the look of his face flushed and broken-open made her stutter and break.

When he pulled off the condom and dropped it, knotted, over the side of the bed, she took his hand in both of hers and licked across the pads of his pointer and middle fingers.

‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling up at him, ‘grape.’

He laughed and lay down on his side, pressed up close against her, chest still heaving and cock lying soft and slick against his inner thigh. For a moment they said nothing, and then she sat up and said suddenly, ‘wait, where’s Dean?’

—–

He got back half an hour later, full of pizza and with a pocketful of the bullet casings he’d gone back for. Sam was still in the basement, putting away the SWAT gear.

‘Where’s the vermicelli?’ Liz said, vaguely confused, when Dean opened her fridge and made exploratory noises. He looked sideways at her and grinned.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘we don’t like vermicelli. That’s, uh. That’s just a code.’


End file.
